In the year 2002, four twenty-something-year-olds attempt to navigate their surroundings in New York City while getting drawn into a culture of drugs, glamor, and violence.
At the same time, an old bookstore clerk struggles to overcome grief, until...
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Officer Charlie Strauss sits in the front seat. His hand grips on the steering wheel. Left foot on the gas pedal. Ragged tires screech on the dark gray pavement. Police sirens roar in his ears, as Charlie tries to locate an abandoned warehouse.
Sitting across from him is an awkward rookie named Oliver Copperfield. His blonde hair dance past his large ears. His green eyes focus on the grimy windshield until Oliver sees Charlie communicating to his Walkie-Talkie.
"Charlie," Oliver screeched. "Where the hell are we going? The boss told us we need to go to New Square!"
His partner didn't answer. He is too busy swerving around cars as if the whole thing is an 80s arcade game. Digging his fingers into the black seat, Oliver prays Charlie won't hit an old pedestrian or a homeless woman. The suburbs of New York City is no place to be causing car accidents.
Peeping at the honking cars behind him, Charlie holds the reins. The speedometer declines from 110 to 87 mph. His posture shifts from frantic to calm.
Ugh, thank God. Oliver thought. He leans his back against the chair. His stomach gurgled, forcing him to cover his mouth. He hated fast rides—always have, always will. The last time he went on one was during a class trip. His shitty friends pressured him into going on the bumper cars. He got so nauseous that he threw up on Maggie Elmers.
Oliver expresses a groan. He wishes he can build a time machine so he can make the event disappear. But all he thinks about is his boss's ominous stares.
Charlie casts him a reassuring look. "Sorry, but—"
Ammunition rudely interrupted him by hitting the windshield. The cops flinch. Bits of glass shards rain on Charlie's wrinkled pants. They tumbled on the floor, sprinkling the soiled mats.
"Holy fucking shit!" shrieked Oliver. "What the hell was that?"
"Maybe it's the guy we've been looking for," Charlie murmurs, before starting the car.
A red BMW spirals past three stoplights. Three more cop cars zip after the vehicle—along with a helicopter hovering over the road. Charlie drives after them. Oliver fumbles with the gun in his holster as cop cars open fire on the BMW, but the car persists.
An unidentifiable passenger rolls his window down and attempts to fire his weapon until Oliver shoots him in the face. The passenger slumps in his seat with his arm flying out. Blood snakes down the glass, upsetting the other drivers.
"Holy shit!" Charlie whooped. "Nice shot!"
Oliver empties his revolver, pulls out a pack of ammo, and shoves it in the slot. He fires at the wheels but the BMW is too quick. It maneuvers around a moving truck and steers to the left, where traffic flourished like a virus.
"Jesus Christ," Oliver grumbles. "Do you think we can catch him?"
Charlie spots the helicopter pursuing the BMW then shakes his head. "If we continue to chase after this asshole, then the car will run out of gas."
